


Interlude

by erebones



Series: Sons of War [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, References to Torture, Sharing a Bed, i have a thing for felix bathing i don't know why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate "first time" in the Sons of War 'verse. While staying in Asariel to wait for Isabela's ship, Felix and Carver share a room and a bed. One thing leads to another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't strictly "canon" Sons of War, but it borrows from that 'verse. If you don't feel like reading SoW first, basically Felix was made a Warden and he and Carver were the ones to travel to Weisshaupt, which was overrun with darkspawn controlled by the Architect. Felix suffered torture at the hands of the Architect for his experiments, and Carver and Zevran came to the rescue. Now they're on their way to Vigil's Keep, silently pining for one another (but not for long).

_It’s cozy, at least_ , Felix thinks ruefully as he looks around the little room: rough-cut pine floors that are well-sanded if not polished, a washbasin tucked into the corner beside a chipped but serviceable chamber pot, and a hearth grate freshly swept of ashes, ready for a fire to be laid. The bed takes up most of the space, a four-poster monster piled with furs, and Felix longs to sink into it immediately, clothes and all.

Carver drops his pack on the floor and cracks his back with a bone-weary sigh. “Maker’s balls, I could sleep for a week.”

“Charming, but accurate,” Felix murmurs, watching idly as Carver unbuckles his breastplate and gauntlets one at a time. He bends over to do the same to his greaves, and Felix realizes he probably shouldn’t be staring. “Do you think they’ll bring us a bath?”

“I think Zev ordered one for each of our rooms. You can go ahead if you like, I had a dip in the river this morning.”

Felix curls his lip a little at the idea. The Lasse was comprised of pure, clean snowmelt fresh from the Anderfels, and mist rose from it every afternoon when the warmth of the Tevinter lowlands reacted with the icy water. He has no idea how Carver could stand to bathe in it, but it was probably something to do with his Ferelden blood. Weren’t they all part mabari, or something?

Looking at him now, struggling out of his chainmail and shaking his head briskly to settle his hair, Carver _does_ look rather brutish. Not in a bad way. In a powerful, predatory way. His arms are thick with corded muscle as he pushes up his sleeves, his shoulders powerfully broad, and his thighs and calves are heavy with strength as he strips off his socks and boots, leaving everything in a pile at the foot of the bed. Carver catches him looking and grimaces apologetically. “I’ll get it in a minute. I just want to lie down.”

“It’s fine,” Felix says lightly. “I’ll get the fire.”

He’s no Dorian, but fire comes more readily to him than ice—perhaps the shared elemental base with lightning magic, his favorite and most instinctive school. He crouches by the grate, still in full armor, and pushes kindling and logs together halfheartedly before setting the whole thing aflame. When he straightens and turns back, Carver is watching him from the bed, sprawled on his side beneath the covers and a look of bemusement on his face.

“You’re so lazy. You’ve never struck a match in your life, have you?”

“Never needed to,” Felix replies, dusting off his hands. “Just as _you_ have never had to learn the steps of an Antivan waltz, I’ll wager.”

Carver looks at him blankly. “What would I need to know that for?”

“Precisely.” Felix sits in the chair beside the window and begins working on his gauntlets. “Weren’t you saying something about taking a nap?”

“Want me to shut up, do you?”

“A little peace and quiet wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Hmph. Fine.” Carver rolls over and buries himself in the blankets so that only a little tuft of black hair is sticking out. Felix smiles at it for a little while, lost in thought, until a knock comes on the door and two servants drag in a bath and several buckets of hot water. The steam fills the small room almost immediately, and some thoughtful maid has sprinkled the water with jasmine oil. Felix leans over the tub—a humble thing of beaten copper, but it will fit him comfortably with his knees drawn up—and breathes in the wafts of steam delightedly.

“Ponce,” comes the soft mutter from under the bedclothes.

“Voyeur,” Felix replies tartly, even though he’s still entirely dressed but for greaves and gauntlets. “Don’t look.”

There’s an apologetic grumble, and the mountain of furs shifts directions. “I thought you’d want help with your chainmail.”

“I’ll manage.” He’s not entirely sure of this, actually. He did all right on the journey over, mainly by not taking it off ever. It lifts out of the way easily enough to piss and shit, and none of them have been overly concerned with bathing, seasoned travelers all. He hopes the fastenings aren’t glued shut with grime.

His tabard he drops on top of Carver’s things to be sent down for washing, and then he reaches back to the ties of the mail tunic. The first three are easy enough, but the thick, heavy metal rings limit his range of motion, and he can’t twist his arms back well enough to find the rest. With a sigh, he stomps over to the side of the bed and presents his back.

“All right, you win.”

“Wasn’t a contest,” Carver rumbles, emerging from the bed like a bear from its winter den. He brings with him a wash of warm air, scented with clean sweat and leather, and it wafts pleasantly over the back of Felix’s neck as he stands still for Carver’s inspection. He can barely feel it, his touch is so light—first untying the clasps of the chainmail, and then slipping under the heavy material to help slide it off and onto the floor in a heap. The padded gambeson follows, though Felix doesn't ask, Carver's sturdy fingers surprisingly gentle with the buckles and clasps. Though the air in the room is warm, it hits Felix like a bucket of ice water through the thin, sweat-damp cotton of his shirt, and he shivers.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

Carver is submerged again. Felix toes the chainmail away from the side of the bed and unlaces his trousers. He can’t help but glance over his shoulder as he rids himself of the rest of his clothes, but Carver’s face is not to be seen, and eventually he yanks his shirt over his head in a rush and plunges into the water.

“Yowch!” It’s not boiling, but it might as well be. He clasps his privates in both hands, wishing he’d had a little more foresight, and frowns when Carver pokes his head out again. “What did I say about not looking?”

“Sorry! Sorry. Maker. I was just checking. Don’t burn your balls off, genius.” Grumpily, Carver flips the furs over his head one more time and doesn’t move for the duration of Felix’s bath.

Afterward, he wraps himself hastily in a fresh shirt and smalls. When he opens the door to summon a maid for the dirty water and their laundry, he finds a tray with two bowls of stew and hearty Anders bread, still crackling-hot from the oven and studded thickly with dried fruits. A little dish to one side is full of fresh butter, white as cream, and Felix’s mouth waters.

“Here,” he says, returning to the bed and setting the tray on the flat side. He pokes the lump that is Carver. “Food.”

Carver grunts and groans like an old man as he emerges from the furs. He farts, scratches his chest, and sits up, yawning wide enough that Felix can count the back of his teeth. “Finally. ’M starving.”

They devour the simple, hearty meal in record time, and when Felix takes the tray back to the hall, the daylight streaming through the leaded windows has turned to muted grey. He leans against the sash and looks out over the street. From here he can see a little piece of the harbor, still dazzling aquamarine in the light of the setting sun, but everything else has been cast into shadow. Golden light spills out from the inns and merchant houses, illuminating patches of the packed-earth road, and overhead the sky is powder-blue and darkening fast. He tugs the sash closed and goes to bed.

Carver has lit a candle while he was turned away. It sits in a wall sconce above Felix’s side of the bed, flickering in cheerful counterpoint to the coals still glowing in the fireplace, and Felix is suddenly and absurdly grateful for the consideration.

The bed, when he finally climbs in, is well-padded with sweet-smelling grass, and the linen sheets are worn soft from use and repeated washing. He wiggles in, letting the weight of the furs settle over him, and sighs contentedly. Carver is as good as a whole basket of heating stones—even a few handspans away, allowed by the breadth of the mattress, Felix feels the warmth seeping into his bones. And finally, like he has longed to for the past few nights sleeping in his chainmail and leathers, he slips his hand under his shirt and presses the palm flat against his belly.

The feel of his own skin is foreign to him now. He can feel the ridges of the scarring, even after Tabris’ extensive healing, can count them like little spidery ribs with his fingers. One, two, three, four, and then his belly tightens unpleasantly and he stops keeping track. Up from his hipbone, over his navel, his hand smooths up to his chest and stops. There, over his heart, is a smooth, hairless patch of skin that doesn’t quite match the rest. It’s the place his father made the first cut for the ritual to stem the tide of the blight sickness, and the place where the Architect carved a little more away each time, trying to peel away the skin to see the beat of his heart behind his sternum. Felix shudders and swallows fear. He strokes the place, and then up to his throat, still unmarked after all that. He is safe. He is safe. He is safe.

“Fee?”

He jerks his hand out from under his shirt. “Yeah?”

“I can feel you moving around. Are you all right?”

Felix stares at the ceiling. “Fine. Just… checking.”

“Checking?”

The candle still burns, and it reflects in the deep blue-black of Carver’s eyes when he rolls to lay flat on his back beside him. Felix meets his eyes, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “The scars. I’m not… I’m trying to get used to them.”

Carver’s eyebrows do something complicated, and his eyes drop to the furs where Felix’s body hides. “Tabris said they would improve with time. They don’t still pain you, do they?”

“Not really. They ache sometimes, but the bath helped.” He fumbles for the right words, frustrated with the clumsy tripping of his tongue. “I don’t want to be afraid of them anymore. They’ll be with me for the rest of my life—I might as well get used to them.”

“There’s no rush,” Carver says gently. He’s so sweetly anxious, brow all rumpled, his button nose drawn up, and Felix reaches for his hand beneath the covers. It’s natural and not at all uncomfortable to bring their joined hands across the mattress and press them flat to Felix’s belly.

“Here.”

He shudders a little to feel Carver’s rough, calloused palm in direct contact with the evidence of his nightmares, but Carver is unmoved as steel. He rests it there, and slowly Felix grows accustomed to the feeling. Carver must feel the last gram of tension bleed away—he curls his fingers just a little, and Felix squirms.

“That tickles!”

“Yeah.” Carver grins half into his pillow, turned to lie on his side. He firms his touch, rubbing over Felix’s ribs and across his diaphragm, feeling out the scars, and not a single speck of discomfort or distaste crosses his face. Felix lets himself hope.

“They’re not awful, are they?”

“I mean, I can’t see them, but—oh. Okay.”

Carver watches with heavy-lidded interest as Felix shoves the covers down around his thighs. It’s funny, looking down his chest to see Carver’s square hand lying on his stomach, his shirt rucked up around his sternum, and the little lick of dark hair meandering from his navel to the waistband of his smallclothes. A heavy pulse stirs deep in the bowl of Felix’s pelvis. Carver’s hand twitches.

“No, they’re not awful, Fee.” His thumb traces one pale line that curls, wavelike, around the hub of his hipbone. “I mean, they’re there. You look like you’ve been through the war, and you have, but there’s nothing good or bad about that. They just _are_.”

Felix closes his eyes. Even with the furs pushed off, Carver’s warmth seeps into him, calm and steadying.

“Fee?”

Carver sounds closer, and the mattress shifts beneath him. He blinks his eyes open and Carver is there, hovering, propped up on one elbow to better look into his face. The concern is back, knit seamlessly into his face. Felix wants to smooth away that little wrinkle. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay? I mean—sorry, stupid question. I know you’re not, some ways. But. Are you… this?”

Felix chuckles, and Carver’s hand bounces against his belly. “What are you asking me, Carv?” On the heels of his question, he shudders, a sympathetic reaction to the delicate scrape of Carver’s nails over the soft, unmarred stretch of skin beneath his ribs.

“I’m asking, is this okay?” His eyes are very blue.

Felix breathes deeply, his stomach nudging into the warm pressure of Carver’s hand, and he feels a warm, indulgent heat begin to build between his legs. “Yes.”

Carver’s mouth twitches to one side, almost a smile. “Good. Tell me if it’s not, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Carver is still poised above him, looking down to where his hand paints small circles on Felix’s skin. Felix tips his chin back, not quite craning, too proud to ask for what he wants, but hoping Carver will understand anyway. The small movement draws Carver’s eyes, and like an arrow sinking deep into its target, they fall immediately to his parted lips.

 _Kiss me_ , Felix thinks, as hard as he possibly can. And even though he isn’t bleeding, isn’t stirring even the slightest breath of mana, Carver leans down and does just that.

Felix forgets to breathe. Carver kisses him so gently, testing the waters, barely teasing at his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, but it’s all the encouragement Felix needs. He opens to Carver’s tentative advance and their tongues lick together carefully. Carver tastes like stew and himself, and his lips are a little chapped and his chin a little stubbled, but his mouth is soft and warm and his hand still draws slow circles on his belly, tireless. Felix sighs happily, almost a moan. Carver hums in answer and for a moment his lips turn firm, sucking Felix’s lower lip between them and teasing with the slightest hint of teeth.

“Nng,” Felix says when they part, and suddenly he’s not above begging. But Carver kisses him again swiftly, a light peck to his lips and the tip of his nose, and his hand slides up Felix’s chest, distracting him from his goal.

Carver is smiling. “That was good.”

“Hm. Yes, I’m not a complete buffoon in the bedroom, you know,” Felix says, a little sourly, but Carver’s forefinger traces a slow, spiraling circle around the hardening peak of his nipple, and his moue becomes an open-mouthed gasp.

“Not what I meant.” He leans down and kisses him again, like he can’t stop, like Felix’s mouth is as much a drug to him as Carver’s is to Felix, and isn’t _that_ a heady thought. “Just… it’s good. This.” He pinches the nipple lightly, and a shudder of sensation flickers through his body, priming him like a staff ready for casting. “And this.” Another kiss, just as soft and wet as the first. Felix wishes he could unhinge his jaw and swallow Carver whole. Unrealistic, improbable, illogical, but such is what Carver’s touch reduces him to.

“Can you,” he murmurs against Carver’s sandpapery chin. Carver nuzzles the side of his face, nibbles his earlobe, rubs his coarse stubble against the naked stretch of Felix’s neck.

“Ask, Fee. It’s yours. All of it.”

“More,” Felix says, and blushes a little at the want twined around his voice. “Um, your hand…” He falls quiet, shuddering in silence as Carver rubs the tip of his finger intently over the little bud of flesh. The contact is dry, but welcome, and Felix arches into it with a little needy sound.

“Like this?” Carver asks. His eyes are crinkled, mischievous, but his voice is entirely sincere, and Felix knows he’ll give him whatever he asks. The power is heady, and humbling.

“Yes,” he whispers. “And… everywhere.”

“Yeah. Whatever you want, Fee.”

Carver nudges him, draws him closer into the center of the mattress. When he bends low, Felix tips his head back and closes his eyes so that the first cool, wet touch of Carver’s tongue on his nipple is a spark of delighted surprise. He gasps a little as Carver flicks his tongue, delicate at first, then firm, laving him on one side and then the other until they’re taut and hard as pearls in the cool air. Then he kisses Felix’s collarbones above the pushed-up fabric of his shirt, the hollow of his throat. His hand plays with each nipple in turn, tugging lightly, just enough pressure to turn Felix’s breath ragged and coax a bright red flush down his throat and chest.

“Nnngh. Carver.” He whispers the name like a secret, like a prayer. His fingers curl into the thatch of Carver’s hair as he presses warm, sucking kisses down the side of Felix’s neck. He can feel the warm bloom of heat they leave behind, little pink marks that will soon fade, leaving only the sweet memory of their warmth like brands in his flesh. “Carver…”

“I like that,” Carver says quietly, fingers dragging slow down the center of Felix’s belly to toy with his navel. “You, saying my name.”

Felix smiles up at him, grounded by his weight, warmed by his touch. “ _Carver_.”

Carver’s eyes fall half-shut, heavy-lidded. There’s more black to them than blue, but Felix is not afraid. “Fee.” His hand presses low, following the trail of hair to his smalls. “Felix, I…”

Felix lifts his hips, and Carver’s palm comes down warm on the hard, hot flesh that strains beneath the silk. “Carver.” He pets him, at first, slow little strokes—then, at Felix’s murmured encouragement, gets his fingers tucked around the weight of him, outlined obscenely through the thin fabric of his smalls. Felix whines, mouth dropping open. “Carver…”

Carver shudders, head bowed and shoulders hunched. He strokes him, silk smoothing the way, and Felix lets his legs sprawl open, inviting him to lie between them. The weight of his body, when it comes, is everything Felix hoped for. He’s shirtless, and his skin is smooth and hot and flecked with scars. Felix finally lets himself touch, following the flex of muscles in Carver’s back to grab at his arse and press him down.

The iron-fisted control in Carver’s body goes suddenly soft and pliable. He groans and sinks down all the way, lets the momentum carry their hips together, and he buries his face in the curve of Felix’s neck with a muffled groan. “Fee, oh fuck, you feel so good. You’re perfect.”

Felix traces his nails down Carver’s spine and draws his knees up. Carver’s weight settles perfectly between them, and their hips push into perfect alignment, pricks nestled side-by-side through the fabric of their smalls. Felix groans and grabs at Carver’s impossibly wide shoulders. “Carv—more of that. Yes. Yes, yes, keep doing _that_.”

It’s nothing special, really, what Carver is doing—little shuddering pushes forward and back, grinding their hips together in a sloppy mimic of something more serious—but it’s exactly what Felix needs. He bites at Carver’s ear and digs his fingers into the meat of his back, sighs and groans garbled together. For answer, Carver ruts harder, and Felix presses his steady stream of desperate sounds into Carver’s shoulder.

“Do you want to,” Carver gasps, “oh, fuck, Felix—d’you want to take these off?”

Felix doesn’t want to part from him for even a second, but, “Yeah, please,” he whispers anyway, and Carver kisses him hard before sitting up just enough to tug them free of their smalls. Felix shivers a little in the open air and Carver draws him back in, throwing the furs over their tangled bodies for good measure.

“Better?” he whispers. He smooths a kiss to Felix’s brow and pets one broad hand down the pitted curve of his back. Felix pushes forward and nods, head tucked under Carver’s chin.

It’s humid under the covers, almost uncomfortably so, but neither of them minds. They writhe together slowly, side by side at first, with Carver’s thigh between Felix’s and their hands touching everything, everywhere, never satisfied. Then Felix pushes him back, a little spark of bravery singing through him, and he straddles Carver’s hips with the furs over his shoulder like a cloak while Carver works their cocks together in one enormous hand.

Felix comes first, biting down on his lower lip and forehead bowed to press against Carver’s chest. He grips Carver’s upper arms and whines, long and low, as each pulse is wrung slow and implacable from the depths of his groin to splatter warmly on Carver’s stomach. Then, though he shakes and shivers with the aftermath, he closes his hand around Carver’s impressive girth and pumps until the warrior’s spine bends up from the mattress and he bites out a broken bellow into the meat of his forearm.

“C’mere,” Carver gasps, the last few tremors rippling through him still, and Felix slumps against his side. His head pillows naturally against Carver’s shoulder. He turns his nose in, breathing the sour-salt musk of him, and sighs long and low.

He means to rouse himself enough to fetch a rag and tidy some of the mess, but he falls asleep almost instantly. When he wakes several hours later, thoroughly rested and free of nightmares, he can’t quite bring himself to regret it.

“Hey.” Carver is awake, too, sloe-eyed and smiling from their nest of pillows. He thumbs the curve of Felix’s cheek. “You’ve got a crease.”

“And a crick in my neck. Your shoulder’s bloody uncomfortable.” He turns his jaw and winces theatrically to demonstrate.

“Poor thing,” Carver murmurs, sounding halfway between mocking and concerned. He cups the back of Felix’s neck and squeezes lightly. “Guess I’ll have to fix that for you.”

“Please,” says Felix, and lies back down. The pillows feel divine after a night spent slumbering on Carver’s musclebound shoulder, and with Carver’s thumbs plying the stiff muscles of his neck, he’s half-asleep again in moments. “Carv?” he says, before his body can succumb.

“Hmm?”

“That was… we should do that. Again. Often.”

Carver rumbles with suppressed laughter, and then Felix feels the soft, damp touch of his lips on the nape of his neck. “Agreed.” Another kiss. “Better?”

“Much.”

“Good.” He settles back down and pulls the furs up cozily around their shoulders, tucking in close to Felix from behind. “We can spare a few more hours,” he murmurs, and Felix finds that he’s in perfect agreement.


End file.
